 Act I of The Squire by Arthur Wing Pinero. The Squire. Characters. The Reverend Paul Dormer. Red by Todd. Lieutenant Eric Thorndyke. Red by Larry Wilson. Gilbert Hithe. Red by Thomas Peter. Gunnion. Red by Alan Mapstone. Isaac Hackeston. Red by Adrian Stevens. Fowl. Red by Neymar. Rob Johns. Junior. Red by Son of the Exiles. The representative of the Pagley Mercury. Red by Frédéric Surger. Kate Verity. Red by Sonia. Christiana Haggerston. Red by Linda Olsen-Vytaque. Felicity Gunnion. Red by Devorah Allen. Dame. Red by T.J. Burns. Child. Red by Ron Fellows. Loud Voice. Red by Lorda. Man's Voice. Red by Adam Bielka. Woman's Voice. Red by Eva Davis. Voice. Red by Jim Locke. Stage Directions. Red by Michael Max. The Squire. Act I. The Secret. Scene. The exterior of a decayed, weather-beaten, Elizabethan mansion. Overgrown with ivy and autumn-tinted creeper. On the right, the lower part of a tower, square or circular. Facing the audience about five feet from the ground, a door opening into the tower, the entrance proper to the house. This door leads out onto a stone terrace, which is run off the stage right, and which terminates right centre in a few broken and irregular steps. At the foot of the steps, centre a stage, an old halting-stone. Below the terrace, right, a wooden garden-seat. On the right of the garden-seat, a small rustic table, on which is a work-basket with materials for needlework. At back, upstage, the house runs from right to left. In right-corner, a piece of broken stonework almost concealed by ivy, forming a footing to gain a broad beam, which runs about twelve feet from the ground, from right to left. Above the beam, two substantial casement windows, right centre and left. Below the beams, right centre a window, and on the left a large archway, with broken iron gates leaning against its walls. Through the archway, a bright view of farm-yards, ricks, etc. On the left, continuing the house-wall down the stage, an outhouse, suggesting a kitchen-dairy. Outside this, upstage left, a wooden bench with milk-pails, etc. Downstage, a door leading into outhouse. Above door, left centre, a rough deal-table and two chairs. The ground is flagged with broken stones, which are much overgrown with moss and weed. Bright music at opening, lights full up. At rise of curtain, the bell rings in a discordant way. Christiana Haggeston, discovered left, scrubbing a small wooden pail. Christiana is a handsome, dark woman with the tinge of the gypsy upon her face. What is it? Puts pail on form left, goes up into archway, and looks off right. Izod, offstage. Hello, Christy? I come in, Izod darling. What's wrong? Izod, right. Offstage. It's the dog. He can't abide me. Christiana hurls her scrubbing brush at the dog. Lie down, you beast. Come along, Izod dear. Izod backs on as though afraid of dog. Izod Haggeston enters through archway. He is a little, thin, dark fellow, half-cared, half-gypsy, with a brown face and crisp, curly black hair. He is dirty and disreputable, an idler and a sneak. Christiana, putting her arms round his neck. I haven't seen you for nearly a week, brother dear. Izod, shaking himself clear. All right. Don't moll, Christy. If the squire was more commonly civil to a poor chap, you'd see a little more of me. I want something to drink, and some coin for tobacco. Christiana, standing by him and stroking his head. No luck, dearie. Look, no. The farmers won't look at a fellow with a dark-skinned cussum. The broods. Fondling him. Well, don't moll, Christy. I'm dead dry. Christiana, looking round. Why, dear? And I'll bring you a drink. She crosses to left. She goes into outhouse left. Izod looks round towards door right centre with an evil expression. He then deliberately takes off the coloured handkerchief which he wears round his neck, unfolds it, and produces a bunch of bright keys. Izod, jingling the keys and looking towards the door right centre. Keys? I wonder if keys are worth anything. Slips keys into side-pocket and crosses to door left, meeting Christiana, who comes out with a mug of milk, snatching it from her. There's a dear. He puts mug to lips, and takes it away quickly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Pah! You're a good sort of a sister. Milk! I just untuck the ale without squire's orders. The new barrel isn't to be touched till the harvest feast. Don't with it. It's me and drink. Here goes. Confound the squire. He drinks, giving back mug, and holds out hand for coin. She puts mug on table. Coin for tobacco? Don't spend your money on tobacco, darling. Have a meal. I had a meal yesterday, midday. Proudly. I earned two shillings in half an hour. Good gracious! How? Izod, walking right and back. I, an old Mrs. Thorn Dakes Gardner, carried a sick woman on a litter from Packley Railway station to the White Lion at Marketsynfield. Oh! She was a wait. Sets right of left table. Carried a sick woman on a litter. Leans against table, left of it. The railway journey had upset her, and the doctor said she was too ill to be shook up on the roadway. A common woman or a lady? A lady, jolly dark, jolly pretty, and jolly ill. Christiana, curiously. What does she do at an inn in Marketsynfield? Sets on table. She gave out that she was a stranger in these parts, and wanted to see a clergyman. She was a wait. Well? So I fetched Mr. Dormer the mad parson. Did he go to her? I don't know. Coined for tobacco. Rises. Izod goes up to Arch. I've only got a lit money. I'll fetch it, do ya? She takes up mug reflectively. A pretty lady in Marketsynfield. Very dark, very ill, and amongst strangers. How unlucky all dark women seem to be. Coined for tobacco. Wrapping table. Christiana, starting. Oh, yes, dear. She goes off left. Izod again produces the keys and jingles them on the table. Glancing in the direction of the right centre. Keys, and a name cut on the key ring. Shaking them. What sort of tune do they play, I wonder? Rises. Christiana re-enters carrying a small purse. She comes left of table and empties the contents into his right hand. Counting money. Five bob. Lave me a little. Izod, pocketing money. There's a shilling for you. I'll pay you what I owe you when you coax the squire to employ me regularly on a farm. Goes to right centre. That'll never be. I've tried. Here for you? Showing bunch of keys. Look there. Don't snatch. Read the name on the ring. Showing the ring only. She examines the ring, which he still holds fast. The name of the man who is always hanging about this place. Where did you get this? Gilbert Highs appears in the archway from left. As he enters they separate. Izod to right, she to left. It's a squire and doors, Christie. He comes down centre. He is a fine strapping fellow about thirty. Dressed roughly in an old velvet jacket, cords and gaiters. He carries a light double barrel gun. Yes, Mr. Eith. Gilbert, seeing Izod. What the devil are you doing here? Nothing. That's what you're always doing everywhere. Get out. I cleaned the windows here last Tuesday and I haven't been paid for it. That's a lie. Goes towards him. Well then, I have been paid for it and I've come to visit me dear sister. Look here, Izod. I've had half an hour at the rigs this morning, ferding the rats. A man shoots rats because they are ferman. It's a lucky for you and idlers like you that you're on two legs instead of four. For shame, Gilbert Eith. I'm his sister. I beg your pardon, Christie. I ought to have held my tongue before you. Look here, Izod, my lad. You know that the squire can't bear the sight of loafers and ne'er-dwells. Why don't you go where you're welcome? Goes upstage to Archway. Where's that? I've misliked the address. Gilbert, in Archway. Christie, tell the squire that I have brought two men with me. Young Rob Johns, the fiddler's son and a newspaper chap. Very well. And your dinner is waiting for you, Mr. Eith. Pointing to door left. One has been this half hour. My dinner? Oh, yes. Izod, old teller, eat my dinner for me. I'm busy. Thank you, Mr. Eith. And then pull yourself together, man, and work. Gilbert goes off upstage through Archway. Christiana comes quickly to Izod who gets to centre. Christie goes upstage and looks after Gilbert. Tell me, dear, dear, dear, where did you find that keyring? Izod looks round cautiously, pointing to windows above Archway. I cleaned those windows here last week and badly paid I was for the job. Well? On that beam, which is broad enough for a man to crawl along, I found this bunch of keys. What does that mean? Look here. He goes upstage, right centre, to the stonework which runs up to the coping. Do you see this? An easy flight of steps up to that window sill. What of it? Izod pointing to the ivy running up the wall. The ivy is old and strong enough. If you clutch it, no fear of falling. What of it? Izod removing some of the leaves from the stonework. Look there, footprints, where a boot has kicked away the old crust from the stones. What of it? Izod pointing above. More footprints up there, stopping at that window and under the window this keyring without a speck of rust on it. Tell me what you think, tell me what you mean. Izod comes down to her. I mean that this is the squire's room and that this bunch of keys belongs to the man who seems more anxious than anyone in the parish to be in the squire's company. I mean that if the squire wants to entertain a visitor unbeknown to you or anybody about the place, that is the way in. Climb to a window when there's a door there. Izod pointing to door right centre. Who sleeps at the edge of the stairs outside the squire's room? I do. Izod gives a short whistle. But the dog, Izod, nobody that the dog doesn't love dares try to pass the gateway, the dog. Who gave the dog to the squire a twelve-month back? Ah. Izod holding out a bunch of keys. Why, the man whose name is cut on that keyring? Christiana snatches the keys from him and puts them behind her back. Izod seizes her hand. Give them up to me, you daffyl. I'll call Gilbert I, if you touch me, darling. He releases her. Listen, Izod, I've been here on this bitter land resting under this old roof and working in this old yard since I was a mate so high. I've been here in times of merry-making and in times of mourning and I've seen the grass grow all over the verities. But one, the squire who gives me the same living that goes to the best table and as soft as pillow as lies on the best bed? No. I'll keep the keys, Izod, dear. You go and swallow Gilbert I's dinner. Izod slouches over to door left with a skull. You don't care if the squire does snub your poor brother. You've nothing of the gypsy but the skin. He goes into outhouse door left. Christiana looks at the keys and slips them into her pocket. A bunch of his keys and they are safer in my pocket than in Izod's. Poor Izod is so impulsive. She crosses to right centre, goes up the steps and calls at the door. Squire! Squire! Here's Gilbert I with two men. Don't let them bring their boots in doors. Izod appears at door left. Christiana! Christiana turning. Hush! Coming down steps. How long am I to be treated like this? What's wrong, dear? What's wrong? Why, it's only cold meat. Go in, Izod. Here's the squire. Go in. She pushes Izod in left. Kate Verity comes out of house right centre and down the steps. She is a pretty woman, bright, fresh and cheery. She carries a small keybasket containing keys and an account book and pencil which she places on right table as she turns from Gilbert. She throws the shawl over the mounting stone as Gilbert highs appears in the doorway followed by Rob John's Junior, a mild-looking fair use and a shabby person in black with a red face. Christiana! I'm close around if you want me, Squire. Here's Gilbert. She goes into outhouse left. What are you doing with the gun, Gilbert? I've been putting the ferrets at the rigs. Holding out hand eagerly. Good afternoon, Squire. Kate shakes her head at Gilbert. What a mania you have for shaking hands, Gilbert. Gilbert withdrawing his hand. I beg your pardon. Who are those men? The son of old Rob John's, the fiddler, and the reporting man on the mercury. Well, Master Rob John's, how's your father? Sits right. Rob John's comes down left centre nervously. Father respects and is ill of bed with rheumatics, and he hopes it'll make no difference. Who's to play the fiddle to-morrow night for the harvest, folks? Father wants me to take his place. I'm not nilly such a good fiddler as father is, and he hopes it'll make no difference. Your father has played at every harvest-piece here for the last five and twenty years. Is he very ill? Father's respects, and he's as bad as he can well be, and he hopes it'll make no difference. Good gracious. Gilbert, have you sent the doctor? The doctor's busy with an invalid at the white line at Markets in a field. A stranger. No stranger has a right to old, a doctor. Rises and stands by table-right, making notes in book. All right, Master Rob John's, you shall play the fiddle to-morrow night. Anki, squire. Christy. Christy. Christiana, from within left. Yes. Give Master Rob John's something to drink. Christiana, appearing at the door. Yes, squire. She retires. And give my love, the squire's love, to father, and tell him to keep a good heart. Anki, squire. But father sends his respects and thinks he's a deadon, and hopes it'll make no difference. Rob John's goes over to left, meeting Christiana, who gives him a mug of milk and retires. Rob John sits left and drinks on form. Kate sits on stone centre, sharply to the shabby person who is upstage. Now then, sir, what do you want? Shabby person, who is evidently addicted to drink. I, oh, yes. To Gilbert. Is this Miss Verity? That is the squire. The squire. The squire in these parts is the person who owns Verity's lands. Miss Verity chooses to be regarded as the squire, and to be called so. Passes behind squire. Quite so. Hmm, the editor of the Pugly Mercury and Market St. Philharold, with which are incorporated the innkeeper's manual on the Agriculturalist Guide, presents his compliments to Squire Verity, and regarding the ever-spreading influence of modern journalism, request that I, its representative, may be permitted to be present on Squire Verity's harvest feast tomorrow evening. Kate laughs heartily. The shabby person looks round at Rob John's to ascertain the cause of her amusement. Journalism is as a tree. Its roots is abated in our consideration, while its branches... All right, you can come. Shabby person, raising his arms. While its branches... All right, you can come. Thank you. Would you...? Noticing his face. Oh, dear. I beg pardon. Would you... Would you like anything to drink? Yes. Christy. Christy. Are you quite sure? Positive. Sits right of table. Christiana appears at door left. Christy. Milk. Uh, I should prefer ale. Rises quickly. The old cask is run out, and the new one isn't to be tapped till tomorrow. I don't think I really need anything. I'm very moderate. Thank you. Good day. Rob John's puts mug on form, rises and goes upstage, wiping mouse. Shabby person hurries off through archway. Kate laughs. Goodbye, Master Rob John's. Rob John's turning round upstage. Father's respects, and he's always here to forecut up the ducks at the harvest fest. Father's mortally fond of duck, but he's always cut him up fair and friendly. Yes. My best respects to you, Squire, and as I come in place of Father, I hope you'll make no difference. Good-addy, Squire. He goes off through archway. Kate rises, goes up centre, and down left centre. Thank you, Gilbert, for thinking so much of tomorrow. Gilbert, looking at her earnestly. Don't name it, Squire. Kate, awkwardly. The summer's over. The winds are getting quite cold. Good afternoon, Gilbert. Kate takes shawl off stone and goes towards steps where Gilbert intercepts her. Squire. Yes. Will you listen to me? Business. The business of my life. Oh, Gilbert, again. Sits. Gilbert puts gun down right of archway. Squire. Squire, Kate, I... I can't take no for an answer. Are you a strong man or a weak one? Strong enough to keep from drinking gambling when you make me mad. Weak enough to crawl about this place with the sake of a look from you. Strong enough to love you with all my soul. Weak enough not to hate you for wrecking my life. Don't talk fiddle-dee-dee nonsense about your life being wrecked. Gilbert, we were children together. We were lad and less together. And perhaps, if we both live, we may be old people together, but we mustn't be man and woman together. It doesn't answer. Tell me, what are you supposed to be on my land? Folks come to the bailiff, but I'm more of a handyman. I work for Squire Kate, my dear master. And I love Squire Kate, my dear mistress. Then take a word of advice. Cut yourself adrift from Squire Kate's apron strings. Gilbert turns away. When my father, John Verity, died and left his girl alone in the world, you helped me out of debt and difficulty. But all the skill on earth can never squeeze more than bread and butter out of this dear, broken-down old place. She rises. So go away where there's a world for you, a world to work in and a world to live in. She holds out her hand to him. Thank you for the past. Goodbye. If I come back rich in a year, would there be any chance for me? No. Goodbye, dear Squire Kate. Goes to her. Goodbye, old friend Gilbert. They shake hands. She sits on garden-seat, thoughtfully. Takes small purse from her pocket, looks at wedding-ring in it and kisses it. Gilbert goes quickly upstage, then turns and looks at her. After a moment he comes softly, unperceived, to centre. Kate. Kate, rising with a start. Eric. Oh. Kate, seeing Gilbert. You. Why have you come back? Receiting herself. Eric. Eric. The young soldier who's privileged to whine the apron strings round his neck, lolls away his leisure here with his feet higher than his head and a cigar between his teeth. Don't heed me. I don't know what I have said. Said. Called me by another man's name. I didn't mean to trap you. Kate, rising. Trap. Takes up key-basket. I beg your pardon. But it was concerning's very Mr. Thorndag that I return to speak to you. I won't hear you. I'm going indoors. I won't let you. Standing before her. You know what you are here. Is it Mistress and Servant? I was your Mistress. You are my discharged servant. Humbly, then, as an old servant, I ask you to consider what this Mr. Thorndag really is. A gentleman and a soldier. Not a gentleman, because he's a soldier. What does he do here? Pools. We are friends. They don't say that in the parlour of the White Lion. Oh! Do they dare? Oh, yes. They dare. The idlers in a pothouse malign the woman out of whose land they get the very crust they eat. Covers her face with her hands, and sits on garden-seat. How heart! How cruel! I have stopped their tongues when I've been by. I have always said— Kate, raising her head. You, Mr. Hithe, thank you. In the future don't meddle with their legitimate pleasures. They have so little to amuse them. How selfish I am. The bell-rings. Who's that? The Reverend Paul Dorma appears in the archway from left. He is a dark-browed man, about forty, but with white hair. He is a tired, as a clergyman, but his dress is rusty, shabby and slovenly. He carries a heavy stick. Passing Dorma. Kate, rising. Mr. Dorma. Dorma comes down, meeting Gilbert. You're Gilbert Hithe, I think. You think I right. I am. Can you carry a basket? Where to? To the White Lion. What for? For the sake of a sick woman. I can carry a basket to the White Lion. Thank you. Gilbert, looking at Dorma. For the sake of a sick woman. Dorma turning away. Ah. Gilbert to Kate. Call me when I'm wanted, Squire. I'm going to say goodbye to the dog. Goes off through archway to right. Dorma sits right of table. If your business is with Gilbert Hithe, you can dispense with the mistress of the house, Mr. Dorma. About to go. No, I want you to. Really, Parson? You haven't shown face at the priors since father died, two years ago. You don't say how do you do to John Verity's daughter, and you don't say good day to the nearest approach to Squire that your parish can boast. The one omission is rude. The other, impolitic. I didn't like your father. You resemble him in face and manner. My father didn't like you. She holds out her hand, going to him. How are you, Parson? What can I do for you? He looks at her, takes her hand, sulkily. Fill a basket with food, bit for an invalid, and send your man with it to Market Sinfield. Christie. To Dorma. A woman manages the white lion, I think. A woman mismanages the white lion. Kate clapping her hands. Christie. To Dorma. Shouldn't we hurt the landlady's feelings by sending food there? We shall. Christiana appears at door, wiping her hands on her apron. Now then, you, what's your name? Why don't you come when you're called? Who's calling me what's your name? Seeing Dorma. Hi, Parson. Kurtzies at door. Dorma rises, shaking his stick at her. The gypsy girl, who won't sing the hymns on Sunday. You start them in such a high key, Parson. Christiana, Kurtzying. Yes, Squire, the he does. Dorma raising his finger. The higher the key, madam, the nearer heaven. Passes behind table to left of it. Christiana laughs. Hush. Christie, come here. Christiana comes to Kate's centre. Fill a basket with everything that is tempting, fit for an invalid. Gives key to Christie. Christiana to Dorma. Fall the lie at the white lion, Parson. Dorma sitting left of table. I'm not here to feed woman's curiosity. Run along, Christie. Christie runs up the steps into the house, right centre. Kate crosses softly over to Dorma and stands by table, right of it. It is not often, Parson Dorma, that you stoop to ask help of a woman by all accounts. Dorma, without looking at her. No. Don't think me rude, but in Market Sinfield the folks call you the woman-hater. What else do they call me in Market Sinfield? I... I don't know. That's not true. That's not polite. What else do they call me in Market Sinfield? They call you the mad Parson. Ah, the woman-hater and the mad Parson. Contradictory terms. Moves stall to back of table and sits. You're not mad, Mr. Dorma, but you are rude. How long will that woman take to pack the basket? Are you a woman-hater, Mr. Dorma? I'm not a woman-lover. Kate leaning her arms on table and looking at Dorma timidly. Have you always been a woman-hater, Parson? Dorma looks up quickly and turns away. How long will that woman take to pack that basket? Not very long. The parson's arm is on the table. Kate places a hand on his sleeve. You... you haven't always been a woman-hater, Parson, have you? Dorma drooping his head. No. Thank you, Parson. Was she pretty? I suppose she was. She must have been. Was she good? No answer. We've never had a chat together till now. Was she good? No. Oh. Rises and lays her hand on Dorma's shoulder. I'm so sorry. And now they tell me you've no woman-folk at the rectory. No. Only awkward, clumsy men. Two honest men. Kate looking at his shoulder. That's why your sleeve is coming away from your coat at the shoulder for one of a few stitches. Shall I mend it for you? When will that woman bring the basket? Rises and crosses to centre. Kate pointing to table, right. There's a needle and thread and a thimble on my table. Take off your coat and I'll sew it till the basket comes. Please. With a sigh of despair he lets her take off his coat. She's standing behind him. That's the worst of women. I should never have known the coat was torn. Kate takes the coat over to right and sits on garden-seat, mending coat. Dorma stands with his hands in his pockets. Would you rather go indoors, Parson? No, I'd rather stay where I am. Pleased to walk up and down then to avoid catching cold. Dorma sits obstinately at table. As he does so, the contents of one of his coat pockets drops at Kate's feet. Oh, dear! Something has fallen out of the pocket. Dorma rising quickly. What is it? Kate picks up a clay pipe, much blackened. A clay pipe? Dirty one. Dorma hurrying over to centre. Is it broken? Kate handing it to him. Not a chip. Picking up a tobacco-pouch which has also dropped. Would you care to smoke? Dorma returning to table. No, thank you, ma'am. Poor father used to feel great interest in the colouring of a clay pipe. Did he? I think better of him, Ward. But father had great troubles which made him throw his pipes at the servant. Rises comes across to Dorma who is seated left centre again and offers pipe which he has filled. Then strikes a match which he has brought from right table. I could load a pipe very nicely once. Father used to say I crammed pretty thoughts into it. Of course I don't want you to say that if you don't think so. Gives him the match. Dorma lighting pipe. Thank you. Kate goes back to right and puts matches on table. Christiana enters from house right centre carrying a basket neatly packed and covered with a white napkin. Christiana comes down steps to centre. The basket is packed parson. Chicken and jelly, sponge cakes, gripes. Seeing Dorma in his coat sleeves. Well, I never. Have you never seen a man with his coat off before? Never a clergyman, sir. Call Gilbert Christie. He's by the kennel. Christiana goes up through the archway and calls. Gilbert! Would the sick lady like me to see her parson? No, she doesn't speak in your language. A foreigner. Gilbert enters it back from right, takes the basket from Christiana and comes down right centre to Kate. Christiana drops down left. I shall bring the keys of the barns and the oats house to you tonight, squire. Also my books and such like. I should feel happy if you take them for me. Very well, Gilbert. And as you pass the cottages, tell Gunion the shepherd to come to me. He will do your duties from tomorrow. Gunion is a very old man. I know that. Looking at him. But it's safer. Gilbert turns away and goes to Dorma. Erm, is there any message with the basket? No, I'll follow you when I've smoked my pipe. Gilbert rests his gun against the right side of the arch to Christiana. I'll come back for the gun, Christie. Christiana goes into Eithai's left. As Gilbert walks through the archway, Lieutenant Thondike passes him with a careless nod. Hello, Eith, playing a little red-riding hood. Mind the wolf. Gilbert looks angrily at him and goes off left. Eric comes down. He is a handsome young fellow with an indolent manner. Crossing to Kate. What do you do, Squire? What brings you here? Strolled over from Barrick's. Doctor says I must walk in. Your place is somewhere to walk to. Do you know Mr. Dorma? Eric turning to Dorma. No, but my mother does. How do you do? Eric shakes hands with Dorma. Dorma draws his hand away quickly and puts his hand in Trisa's pocket. Mrs. Thondike is a parishion of yours, Mr. Dorma. Her son ought to know a little of you. If her son attended his church regularly, he would know a little of me. So my mother says. And you are not afraid of catching cold? No, sir. I am not. Have you never seen a man with his coat off? I beg your pardon. Never, clergyman. Kate has finished mending the coat and has risen. Eric takes out his cigar case. Offering it to Dorma. Smoke a cigar, parson? Kate catching his arm. No. I like to see the parson with a pipe. Aside. He mustn't see that. She points to the inside flap of the case which is worked with an inscription in silk and crosses behind Eric to Dorma. Eric aside reading inscription. Kate's love to Eric. Oh! Why, Joe, I forgot. He crams cigar case hurriedly into his pocket. Kate crosses to Dorma left centre with coat. Eric saunters over to garden seat right and sits. Kate assists Dorma to put on his coat. I really must give up walking. I'm quite knocked up. The British officer seems very easily knocked up. The British officer at whose expense so many people make merry is a mild creature in piping times of peace. No offence to the clay, parson. Eric lights a cigar. Dorma crosses right centre to speak to him. Kate looks on anxiously fearing a quarrel. And in times of war, sir? The British officer I am credibly informed is a demon when roused. Putting his legs up on garden seat. I have never been roused. You don't like my profession, parson? No, sir. I do not. I often wish my mother had made me a parson. Why, sir? Because, sir, a clergyman is the only man in the world privileged to be rude on the subject of another person's calling. Kate approaches them. A clergyman, sir, is a professional truth-teller. I've known a common soldier to be a practical one. I recognise no profession which creates idlers. My dear parson, it is the most industrious people who never really do anything. After all, the bees only make honey. And how exceedingly well everybody could get on without honey. An idler, sir, often does mischief against his will. Kate, laying her hand on his sleeve. Mr. Dormer, don't. And brings evil into a region where the very purity of the air nourishes it. Mr. Thorndike, beware of idling. Miss Verity, beware of idlers. Good day, sir. Crosses to table left for hat, and then goes up to archway. Kate gets to right of him. Eric, closing his eyes with fatigue. Where must you really go? Takes out sporting times. You'll come again, Mr. Dormer, some day when Mr. Thorndike isn't here. If I come again, see that it be then. What do you mean? Dormer, putting his hand on her shoulder. Years ago, Kate Verity. I closed one book for ever. It was called Woman. As I see the tide ebb and flow without passion, so I watch a woman in her rise and her fall with a still heart. They are both beyond me. Mark me, I care no more for you, as a woman, than for the beggars in our high street. But, for the sake of the charities which stand to the account of one squire Kate, I throw into the current a small pebble. What is that? Keeps her eyes on Eric. Dormer pointing in the direction of Eric. Repair those old gates and keep that young gentleman on the other side of them. Suppose I like the young gentleman? If he marries in his mother's lifetime, he is a popper. I know that. What business has he here? It kills time. So does the racket court at Pagley Barracks. A friend likes a friend better than a records. And a woman likes a lover better than a friend. There, I have thrown my pebble. The tide washes it away. Christiana enters from left, carrying mug and a glass of milk. She gives mug to Dormer and places glass on table. Waits till Dormer has finished and then takes mug off with her. Where you ties the milk, gentlemen? Dormer stands left of table. Christiana goes out as Gunion enters through Archway. Gunion is a very old man, a dirty specimen of the agriculturalist with straggling grey hair and an unshaven chin. He wears a buttered hat, worsted stockings and huge boots. He speaks in a broad country dialect. Morning, Squire. Kate, sitting right of table. Good afternoon, Mr. Gunion. Gunion, seeing Dormer. Lord bless my eyesight. There's Parson Dormer, a drink in a mug of milk as natural as can be. The very man I wanted for to see. Seeing Eric. Ah, and there's the young Lieutenant. Will he be fond of our bit of a place? Eric, raising his head. Who's that? Seeing Gunion. Oh, are you quite well? Relupting. I'm an old man, I am. I ain't got toothy me head. Eric, dreamily. Don't name it. Have you heard the news, Mr. Gunion? I hear how Gilbert I leaves the priors, and that I'm to do his duties. How do you like the prospect? I'm an old man, I am. I ain't got a toothy me head. But says Gilbert I to me, Mr. Gunion, if you do double duty, you'll get hadica remuneration. Of course you will, Mr. Gunion. To which I said, if I had the chance, I'd die for the squire. Give him the chance. Then that is settled, and you are headmen here. You enter on your new duties at once. Which I shall do all the freer when I've got a burden off my chest. Doman rises as if to leave. A burden? Don't you go, parson, for you're the man to lift it. What's the burden, Gunion? Doman comes down below chair. Gunion goes up through the archway and calls. Felicity, my daughter's squire. Felicity, Gunion. Felicity enters here from right. Is that the little girl who sings so sweetly in the choir? Aye, her singing's sweet enough, but her behaviour's horrid. Oh, dear, oh, dear. Doman resumes his seat. Felicity enters through the archway. Felicity is a pretty little girl with a sweet face and simple manner. Her dress is rustic, but clean and tidy. She comes down right centre and makes a cutsy. Sit down, Felicity. Felicity sits on stone, centre. In heaven's name, why Felicity? Because she was our thirteenth offspring. Good gracious. She's the only one left. The other dozen are all out in the world. Some doing precious well, some doing precious bad. Most of them precious bad. Felicity is a great consolation to you, isn't she? Squire, that girl is a weight on my chest. You wouldn't have guessed it to look at her, but Felicity Gunion is a desolate character. A desolate character? A mad-brained, rampageous, desolate character. She's at as fine a school in as you, Squire. Piano, twelve lessons, singing, six lessons. Deportment, as they call it. Deportment, I taught her. Notwithstanding the old of which, her writing's disposable, her grammar's shocking, and her spellings beastly. And Lord, oh Lord, she's in love with a soldier. Works around behind Felicity to write of her during speech. Eric, shuddering. Ah, what a depravity. Why, Felicity, come here. Felicity crosses to write of Kate. In love with a soldier. Kisses her. Is that true, dearie? It's true, Squire. He's in the eighty-fourth now at Pagley Barracks. That is Mr. Thornbikes' regiment. Felicity, curtsying to Eric. Then you'd know him, sir. A fine-looking gentleman with a dark mustache. Sergeant Tom Morris. Morris. Oh, yes, I know him. Aside. Morris, poor little soul. What do you want with me, gunion? Why, Parson, I thought, the gal being in the choir, and sitting well-forward in the gallery, as you might so to speak, preached rightful at her. The sergeant goes to church, too, and you could lug him in at the finish with the sinners. Oh, don't, Parson. Don't. Is the girl happy at home? No, Parson, that's it. I'm not happy at home. I... I... I... I'm not fond of dear father. Yeah, that. That's not the first time she's said it. She said it on Friday. Kate. To Felicity. Hush. You mustn't speak like that. I love my father so much, and his memory is the sweetest thing left me. Yes, squire, and I'm sure I shall love father's memory, but he's not kind, and he's rude to those who are good to me, especially the sergeant. And I've said that I'll run away and I mean it, for you know I'm to be Tom Morris' wife and travel with him to the beautiful places where the regiment goes. Kate, aside to Dorma. What shall I do, Parson? Kate and Dorma rise. Gunnion pinches Felicity. Dorma, aside. She's only a baby. Keep her as long as you can, Gunnion. Gunnion and Dorma speak upstage centre in Archway. Eric rises and stands right centre. Kate to Felicity, pointing to door left. Go to that door, child, and call Christie. Felicity crosses to left door. Kate goes to Eric right centre. To Eric. Do you know this, Morris? Yes. What kind of man is he? Felicity at door left. Christie? The biggest ganderl in the regiment. Christieana appears at door left. Christieana to Felicity. Who are you? I'm Gunnion's daughter. Christieana frowning. Oh, tell you to call Christie. Eric to Kate. Poor little woman. Do her a good turn. Strolls off right, first exit. Kate sits on stone, right centre. Felicity. Felicity comes to her. Kate passes across in front of her to right. Felicity kneels. Christieana watches them with a dark look from door left. Gunnion and Dorma look on from upstage. Would you like to be my little maid and brush my hair and lace my dresses for me? Felicity kneels beside Kate on her right. And sing to me when I'm lonely. Oh, Squire. And I can darn and mend and mark and I can read and... Squire? Well? Will you let me tell you all about Tom Morris? Perhaps. Christie. Gives her a key from Shattlen. Christieana, left centre. Felicity Gunnion is coming to live with us and to be my little maid. Take her upstairs and give her the small room above mine. Felicity rises and goes right centre. I beg your pardon, Squire. But I have been good enough to wait on you since you were the I. What's wrong with me now? Wrong, Christie. Only that you're an industrious, hard-working girl and deserve a help-mate. Christieana, tugging at her apron impetuously. I don't want to help, mate. I want all you, Squire. We were children together, you and me, mistress and maid. Don't have your art now, Squire. I can't bear it. Kate rises. My heart's large enough, Christie, for all of folks. Christieana, biting her lips. I can't help what I'm saying. I won't bear it. Hush, hush. Take the child upstairs and don't be silly. Goes up to Gunnion and Dorma. Christieana crosses to Felicity centre in an undertone to Felicity. You're the girl that they say is in love with a soldier, aren't you? Yes, miss. A soldier. That's why the Squire's gushed over you, isn't it? No, miss. Christieana contemptuously. No, miss. Shaking her finger at Felicity. Now listen to one word from me. You get wed to your common soldier as soon as you can hook him, do you hear? Why? Because as long as you're in this house, there's mischief and bad blood in it upon my soul there is. Come along and see your bedroom. She seizes Felicity by the arm and takes her up the steps into the house, pushing her in front of her. Gunnion and Kate come down. Well, I'm mightily obliged to you, Squire. I'll bring the rat's box down tonight. That I will. Oh, Gunnion, are you thirsty? Thirsty? I'm perishing for a drop of drink. Get it for yourself. Gunnion crosses to left door. And Gunnion? Gunnion turns. Milk. Milk? No ale till tomorrow night. I'm the father of Thirteen, I am. I ain't got a tooth in my head. Do I understand you, Squire, to say milk? Yes, milk. Joins Dorma in archway. Eric saunters on from right, first exit, and sits on seat right. Looks at Kate's book for a moment. Gunnion downcast. Milk. He goes off door left. Dorma, upstage with Kate. Will you walk towards Marketsynfield, Mr. Thondike? Eric, on seat right. Not yet, Parson, thanks. Dorma, turning away. Bah! Kate, stopping him. You will come to the harvest supper, Parson Dorma, won't you? Dorma, looking at Eric. No. And smoke your clay pipe like father used to? Dorma, looking at Kate. Perhaps. He goes off through archway to left. Kate watches him through archway till he has disappeared. Then she comes softly to door left, listens for a moment, and sees that it is closed. She then crosses to right centre, gives a glance at the house, and runs to Eric's side. Eric puts his arms round her and kisses her fondly. Music ceases. Dear old Eric. Kneeling. My darling wife. Hush, you noisy fellow. Whisper it. There's a good boy now. She bends her head. He whispers. Wife. Kate takes her wedding ring from her purse, and gives it to him. Place my ring upon my finger, Eric, for a moment. Wife slips the ring on her finger, and kisses her hand, pressing the ring to her lips. I have so much in my heart to tell you, oh husband, storm clouds, storm clouds. Let them break, Kate. Love is a good substantial umbrella. A gingham, dear, a gingham. They are talking in market sinfield about me. I envy them their topic. I can't bear it, Eric. What shall I do? The yokels mustn't see me here so frequently. That's all. Kate rises. To stop their tongues and break my heart. Eric, turn your back to me. I have something to say to you. They sit back to back. Fire away, darling. Eric, when we two were wed a year ago, our compact was that our marriage should never become known during your mother's lifetime. That's it, wifey. Because your pride would never allow you to share my means. Very true, Kate. Now, Eric, doesn't it strike you that you were in the wrong? No. Because if a man will take from a woman something so precious as her love, surely he may share with her anything so poetry as her money. Eric turns to embrace her. My darling. Kate, looking round. Don't, Eric. I shall have to go indoors if you behave badly. My dear Kate, there is another point of view which presents itself to the prudent husband. What's that? How much does Pryor's mezny bring you in? Oh, dear, I'm afraid to tell you. Ah. It's not my fault. I've done everything I could. Well then, Kate, my pay and my mother's allowance top up to three hundred and fifty a year. And my darling, I'm in debt. Kate, turning and seizing him by the shoulder. Oh, Eric, how can you? Eric, laughingly. Oh, don't, dear. I shall have to go home if you behave badly. Why, Eric, some of my farm-hands flourish with families on eighteen shillings a week. Yes, darling, there are animals who live on flesh and fruit, and there are animals who subsist on nuts. If I were a beast, I could not look at a nut. If you tried very hard, Eric, do you think you could write? I've been taught, dear. No, no, I mean in journals and magazines. Never can write anything fluently but a check, and that's not always presentable. I'm an ornament, Kate, or nothing, I'm afraid. I'm nothing but your sweetheart. She bows her head in her hands. Why, Kate, this is one of your gloomy days. Kate rises and dries her eyes with a handkerchief. I suppose, Eric, there is not the faintest ray of hope that your mother would ever forgive you for your marriage. Not the faintest. Poor mother, I'm the only living thing belonging to her upon earth. I once persuaded her to keep rabbits with a view of diverting her affections. It didn't answer. Kate walks slowly to centre by stone. Eric follows her. Go nut up to yourself, Kate. Brighten up, aren't you happy? Kate gives a quick look round. Is any man's love so strong for a woman that he would beggar himself for her sake? Why, Kate? What sacrifice will you make for me? Tell me how many bright golden prospects you will blot out for the silly woman you have married. Quick! What is it you wish? Kate, seizing his hand. Eric, publish our foolish marriage of a year ago. Let it be known and laugh that in every house and every in-yard in the country. Do this for me, and for heaven's sake do it quickly. Eric, holding her hand. A little silly gossip is upset you. It can't be, dear. Then, as surely as we stand here, man and wife, you'd drive me from the place where I was born. Where even every weed growing on my poor poverty-stricken land has a voice for me. Where the women and children love and pray for me. You, the man who has brought this ill upon my head, drive me out. Turns up a little. What do you mean? Where are you going? To hide, abroad, anywhere in any hole and corner where no soul knows me. Comes down to front of stone centre. Eric, going to her. Kate, you have some secret. Tell me it. Kate, with his hand in her as she turns from him. Can't you guess? Sinks on stone. Kate. Dear, dear husband. There is a pause, then Eric raises her and kisses her. Kate, my dear, fetch me pen and ink and some writing paper. She crosses sadly to the steps and turns to him, halfway up steps. Husband. Wife. Foot on first step. Are you angry? Eric, taking her hands in his. Angry. Runs up to her. Kate. Drawing his breath. You are a wonder. Kiss. She runs into the house. Eric leans a moment with elbow on pillar, descends steps, rubs his ear. One foot resting on bottom step, then whistles, see the conquering hero comes and crosses to left table and takes up his mug of milk. Raising the mug. Baby's health. He drinks. Kate comes out of the house carrying a small desk. She places it on table right. He crosses to her. Kate, looking at the closed desk. There. I haven't brought the key. Eric, searching his pockets. Try my keys. Oh, I forgot. I have had no keys for the last week or so. Crosses to seat right, pulls table forward. Kate, opening the desk. It isn't locked. How silly of me. They sit side by side with the desk open before them. What are you going to do, dear? Write a veric. Listen to this. Writing. Mother, I have sewn my wild oats in Squire Verity's farm and have reaped a rich crop of womanly love and duty. Dear old boy. Touches his right hand. You made me make a plot. Writing. I suppose you will shut your heart upon me. So be it. But if heaven ever gives us a little daughter, I promise you she shall bear the name of my dear old mother, your dutiful Eric. Folds and addresses the letter. What are you going to do with it? Leave it at the pack-mores on my way back to Pagley. Give it boldly to stibs the butler and run off as fast as my legs can carry me. Christiana comes out of the house on to balcony. Hearing voices below, she bends over slyly and catches sight of Eric and Kate, who are gazing dubiously at the letter. What a red letter-day for both of us, Eric. Eric, pocketing letter. What a red letter-day for mother when she has read this letter. Christiana aside between her teeth. And that's the woman they made a sight of in Margaret Senfield, and she dares to turn her back on me for felicity. Kate to Eric. Must you go? Eric, taking out watch. Well, look. Gilbert enters through the archway from left and takes up his gun. Kate to Eric. Don't let the idlers at the wide lion see you on the higher road. Gilbert, hearing voices, turns aside watching Eric. The man who has robbed me of my hope, my ambition, if I stay another day at the priors, I shall go mad. Ghanian and Isod, with very uncertain steps and supporting each other shoulder to shoulder, stagger out of the act-house up to the archway. Christiana aside. Felicity, not the name for this house. She takes the bunch of keys from her pocket and looks at them exultingly. Ah, I shall have to jingle you yet. Eric rises to part. Christiana draws back. Gilbert stops Ghanian and Isod. My successor. Taking Ghanian's hand. God bless you, man. May you be happy in my shoes than I have been. Ghanian hiccups. Confound you, you're not sober. Milk. Music. Curtain falls quickly. End of Act One. Act Two of The Squire by Arthur Wing Pinheiro. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Act Two, The Siren. Scene. An old-fashioned, comfortable, oak-panelled room. The furniture dark and cumbersome. Downstage right, a door. Upstage right centre. Capacious fireplace with solid mantelpiece above it. At back, right and left, two substantial casement windows. The windows are in deep recesses, about two steps above the stage level. These recesses are sheltered by heavy draperies. Between the windows, upstage centre, a massive bureau, opened with writing materials upon it. Before bureau, a square stool. On left of bureau, a chair. Upstage left, a door. Below door left, a settee. Above settee, a bellrope. Before fire, a comfortable armchair. Left of armchair, a small table with a reading-lamp upon it. On mantelpiece, a clock to strike. Other articles of furniture, et cetera, to fill spaces. The flooring of dark oak, square carpeting right of stage. The hole to produce the effect of a woman's room. Curtains closed. Left window, unfastened. See written letter on bureau. All gas out behind. Gas one half up, inside. Music for act drop. It is night time, no moon. The lighting is to be somber throughout the act. Before the curtain rises, Felicity's voice is heard, singing off-right. There's a jingle to make a maiden glad and flush the skies above her. The clink of the spurs of her soldier lad. I am a faithful lover. Sun is shining, flowers are blooming. Light and bloom are not for eye. What if sob and sigh are looming here the jingle while you may? Curtain. There's a jingle to make a maiden glad and flush the skies above her. The clink of the spurs of her soldier lad. I am a faithful lover. Kate enters at close of song, puts keys on table, leans over back of armchair, listening. Poor little bird, singing of a soldier lover. How am I to tell her that her soldier's heart is not of so bright a colour as his jacket? How can I tell her when there is another soldier lover in the world so good and so true? Sits right of table. She opens her locket. It contains a likeness of Eric. Eric. The man who painted this miniature hasn't done Eric justice. The face is too white and pink, and the moustache isn't at all the right shade. I know I could catch the exact tone of Eric's moustache if I were a painter. It's a kind of browny, yellowy, red tinted, a sad aubern with a sea-weedy wash about it. Under the nose it suggests one of our daybreak skies, and there where the ends droop a sunset of turners. Dear old Eric. Kisses locket. There is a knock at the door left. Kate hastily closes the locket and glances at clock. It's late. Who is it? The door opens left, and Christiana enters, knitting, stocking. Gilbert are eyed in gunion with a box of clothes for the girl. Down by city, left. Gilbert and gunion enter. Gilbert carrying a very diminutive wooden trunk. He places the box down, left centre and doffs his hat. Gilbert still has his gun with him. He goes up to bureau. Good night to you, squire. Gilbert are you been so kind as to lend me an with this blessed box? Pointing at box. My child's wardrobe, squire. Scrape together by the sweat of my brow. Sit down, Gilbert. Gilbert puts his gun down, left of bureau and gets to right of it, standing. Take Felicity's wardrobe upstairs into Felicity's room, Mr. Gunion. Gunion goes to take box. Christiana down left. Excuse me, squire, but before gunion goes I should like you to make note of ale. Gunion drops box. That's been drawn from the new cask. The ale was in my keeping and it's due to me for you to know of the loss. Gunion, on his knees. Drag you for a mischievous ussy. Why, your own flesh and blood helped me to dry the tap in with a mallet and drank double what I did. More shame for an old man to lead a poor boy astray. Kate, shaking her finger at Gunion. Oh, Mr. Gunion, how could you? Gunion rises, gets near a table. Well, squire, it's not a thing I done her for and it's not a thing I'm like to do again. Come, come, that's all right. And I'll pay the penalty, precious deer. I've had my head under the pump from four o'clock till past sunset and waiting my head's a thing I doesn't do. Oh, dear. As for the dropper drink, I was drove to it by grief. I'm an old man, I am. I ain't got a tooth in my head. I've had thirteen children and now the last of them's gone. It ain't for an old man to see the only set of teeth in his house walking out of the front door without taking on a bit. Felicity sings again, off right. What a confounder, brat. She's squalling in the squire's place now. Don't he stand it, squire? Felicity comes from door right, carrying a book and a little silk and shawl. She gives book to Kate and gently places the shawl on Kate's chair. Drat you, what do you mean by vocalising free and easy like that? You ain't been caught on for it. Do you want to make your father look small? I beg squires pardon. If I didn't sing, I should cry. That's the worst of being too happy. It makes people chokey. Kate pats her cheek, seeing her box. Oh, father's brought my bits of things. She runs over to box, throws open the lid and hurriedly empties it of the few mean articles of clothing it contains. From the bottom of the box she takes out a small, gaudily framed picture. Oh, I am so glad. Here's my Lindsay and my Galoshes, my work box. What do you mean by bits of things? Leave your wardrobe alone. Gunion hastily replaces the clothing. Felicity runs over to Kate and gives her the portrait. Looks squire, Tom Morris, any handsome. Gunion replacing clothes. Damn these things. What do you mean by tossing your things up the floor in that way? Lifting box. Good night, you squire. Christie goes up to chair by left, downstage. I'll leave this in the girls' room and be off. Good night, Gunion. Felicity goes to Gunion. Good night, father. Go straight home. Trai, what do you mean by that? Felicity goes round back of Kate's chair to stall right and sits looking at photo. Good night to you, Gilbert Eith and thank you for your help. Good night, Christie. Shouldering box. Damn this wardrobe. Turning to look at Felicity. Your twelve brothers and sisters never are starting a world like this. He goes off. Christiana closes the door after him and sits on chair up left, knitting. Gilbert comes to table, puts hat down. The time's come for us to part company. I've brought my books and old sin in, Squire, as I promised. But you must make one at the harvest, East, Gilbert. Who is to play with the children and to set the old folks laughing if you are missing? Folks will have to laugh at me, Squire, if they are to get a laugh out of me tomorrow. He takes a few rusty keys and some small dog-eared books from his pocket and places them on table before Kate. Here are the keys, the red barn, the barn below Fenningsfield, the storehouse. Kate puts key and money in key-basket. The key of the Ope's house, Gunion's got. Puts books on table. There's my account. It's poor bookkeeping, Squire, but plain. Will you cast your eye over it? Kate, shaking her head. No. Thank you, Squire. Places a little bag of money before her. John buckles rent and Mrs. Test is arrears, lest some job wages paid by me since Saturday. And that's all. Thank you, Gilbert. Now, Squire, I can't say good-bye to you in two worlds. Will you hear what I have to say? Certainly, Gilbert. Give's book to Felicity. Gilbert looks at Felicity and at Christiana and leans over the back of Kate's chair. Can't it be between us, too, Squire? No. Kate, I'm almost a desperate man. Take care how you treat me tonight. Kate, without moving, aside to Gilbert. How dare you speak to me like that? Gilbert, aside to Kate. Reason before you let your good friend slip from you or give you a chance to consider what you are doing. Turns up to Bureau. Squire, I want to scribble a few words to you. Pointing to Bureau. May I write here? If you please. Gilbert sits at Bureau and writes quickly. What are all these, Felicity? Felicity, opening book and reading. Gilbert hides cures for cows. Shall I read them, Squire? Oh, no. Felicity, from another book. Poor mother's receipt for brewing herb beer. Note, but nobody can brew it like poor mother could. Kate takes the book from Felicity and reads. Aside to Felicity. Gilbert's mother was my nurse. Takes book from Felicity. Looking over her shoulder at Gilbert who is writing. Poor fellow. Felicity opens another book. An account of Joe Skilleter's pig who could say yes and no by moving his ears. Note, when Joe's pig was killed it was tough eating. Another argument against the spread of education. Gilbert rises and comes down to table. He places a note before Kate. The few words, Squire. She takes the note. Ah, don't read them till I've gone. Kate replaces the note with a shrug of the shoulders. Christy rises. Gilbert to Felicity. Goodbye, little woman. Felicity rises with a curtsy. Goodbye to ye, Mr. Hithe. Sits again. Gilbert is going. Kate holds out her hand. Good night, Gilbert. Gilbert looks at Christiana who is busy knitting then speaks aside to Kate. You haven't read my note yet, Squire. Kate elevates her eyebrows in surprise. Gilbert crosses to left. Goodbye, Chris, my girl. Turn up your collar, Gilbert. It's bitter cold. Turns it up for him. You're right. There's a wet mist. We're going to have a bad night. Take my word for it. Good night to you. He goes out left. Kate rises and goes to window right. Kate looking out. Good night. It is as black as ink. Shivering. Christy, make up a fire here. I shall read for a little while before I go to bed. Puts money and key-basket in bureau drawer and sits on stool by bureau. Christiana looking at Felicity who is reading the little books. My answer was wide as ours. Well, I suppose she is to be the lady's maid. Oh, Christy. Christy after all these years. Surely you are my friend still. Takes book from table. I know I'm your servant. Whether or not I'm your friend Squire is another matter. But I'm not a friend and I own it. You're very foolish and very jealous. That's it. I'm jealous. I hope there'll never be a worse name for it. She goes out, door left. Kate sits on sofa, left. Kate to Felicity. You can run off to bed, little maid. Thank you, Squire. Puts books down. I shan't want you any more tonight. Felicity curtsies. Crosses to door left, carrying the soldier's portrait. Don't forget to say a prayers. Felicity coming down. Squire. Looks round nervously twitching apron. Kate looks up from her book. Kate raising her head. What is it? I suppose there's no harm in a girl praying for her sweetheart. No. If he's a good fellow and worthy of her. If he's a badden, praying's likely to be of more good to him. She comes nearer Kate and speaks in an undertone. Because Squire, don't be vexed at me. Because if you like, when I'm praying for Tom, I might make a small mention of the other gentleman. Close to Kate. What other gentleman? Felicity bending forward and whispering. The young lieutenant, Squire. Kate rises angrily. How dare you? I am very angry with you. There's not the slightest. Felicity, how came you to think of such a thing? She draws Felicity to her. Felicity claps her hands and laughs. He's such a nice young man, Squire. You couldn't help it. Be quiet, child. We don't always fall in love with nice young men. We do generally, Squire. May I just mention him, along with Tom? Parson won't know. Well, Felicity, there's no harm in praying for a man even if one is not over fond of him. No, Squire. So if you like, just a little for the young lieutenant. Yes, Squire? And... And who, Squire? And the woman he loves. Good night, dear. Pats her cheeks. Felicity goes up left. Christiana enters door left, followed by Isod carrying wood fuel. Christiana takes the wood from Isod and crosses to fireplace right. Why, Christy, what is he doing here? Christiana right on her knees before fire. He's been sleeping off the effects of that wicked old man's temptation, poor dear. Takes up bellows. I'm better now, Squire. Thank you. I've been precious queer all the afternoon. Have you indeed? Well, now that you've carried up the wood, you can be off home. Felicity has gone up to door left. Felicity, up left, turning. Good night, Miss Christiana. Christiana, sulkily, lighting fire. Good night. Blowing fire. Isod, unnoticed by Kate, gives Felicity a low mock bow. Felicity, timidly. Good night, sir. Good night, Miss Ganyan. Makes a grimace at her. She goes out hurriedly. My poor brother, something to say to you, Squire. It's this, Squire. I hear that Gilbert Hive has had enough of the priors, and that there's room for a new handyman. Ganyan takes Gilbert Hire's place. You know that. Yes, Squire, but in consequence of the old man's awful dishonesty with the Arvis Dale, I thought perhaps you'd like to chuck him over. Christiana gets to write a visor. Now, Squire, I'm doing nothing just a present, a gentleman, so to speak. Give me a turn. Have me at your own price, Squire, and you get me cheap. Kate, rising. Look here, Master Hagerston. I don't want to do you an injustice, but I don't like you. There's no room on my farm for you. I shall be glad to hear that you're doing well elsewhere. Kate crosses to fireplace. The fire is now burning brightly. Kate leans against Mantlepiece as Christiana goes over to Izod left. Izod left centre to Christiana aside. There, I told you, sir. She's a cat. Poor boy. To Kate, whose back is turned to them. Well, you want me again tonight, Squire? Kate, without turning. No. Go to bed, Christy. And I suppose Izod can be off about his business? Yes. Christiana aside to Izod clutching his arm. Izod, I'll see you at Pust the Dog, dear. Then go and lie by the ricks near the five trees and watch who passes under the archway tonight. How long am I to wait? Wait till a man walks from the market's Sinfield Road and you won't wait long. To Kate. Good night, Squire, dear. Kate, turning. Good night, Christy. Christiana and Izod go out left, closing door after them. The clock strikes nine. Kate looks at her watch. Already? Oh, if that boy should not have passed the five trees before Eric comes. I'm provoking. She crosses to door left, listens, then turns the key. There's something about tonight that I don't like. Christy, how unkind of Christy to be so jealous. Still listening, she goes to window left, pulls back the curtain and opens window, looking out. That's Christy and her brother walking over the stones. And there's the light in Felicity's room still burning. I can see the shadows. When will the house be still? What a dark night for Eric's lonely walk. The bell rings in the court below. Katey draws back. The bell? So late. What can that mean? She comes from the window and draws the curtain over the recess. Something wrong in the village. Someone ill. She crosses to fireplace nervously. Perhaps poor Mrs. Tester has sent for me to read to her. Old Mr. Parsley wants me to witness another will. I've witnessed eight of them. He has only a few spoons to leave behind him. I can't go to night. And knocking at the door left. Who is that? Christiana outside. Christiana! Kate crosses quickly to door left and unlocks it. Christiana! Opening the door. What is wrong, Christy? Christiana enters. Parson Dorma has walked over from Market Sinfield and must see you to-night. Not to-night. Not to-night. Tomorrow. Dorma enters. He wears an old Invanescape and woolen gloves. I suppose a man ought to apologise for calling at this hour. It's cold enough, so one pays the penalty. Takes off cape, gloves and hat, and puts them on the settee, left. Kate crosses distractedly to fireplace. Come to the fire, Parson. He crosses to Kate. Something unusual must have brought you so late. Crosses towards fire below table. Dorma pauses below table. Perhaps. Crosses to fire. While he does so, Christiana, upstage, gently looks through the curtain into the window recess. Christiana at left centre. Aside. She has opened the window. The sight. Poor Isode won't have to wait long. Going to door left. Shall I sit up, Squire? No, I will see the Parson through the archway. Christiana goes out. Something unusual has brought me to you. Kate, with exclamation and quickly. I fear so. I am here to render a service to John Verity's daughter. Thank you. Dorma stands with his back to fire. The red glow is upon them. People think me a strange man. But I am strange even to myself when I find my heart running away with me as it does to-night. You make me frightened of what you have to say to me. It rests with you whether I shall speak or hold my tongue. Kate moves front chair right of table. No. Say what you have to say. Will you be truthful with me? What do you mean by that? Strange thing for a rough man such as I to aim at. I want to save you pain. Puts his hand on her shoulder. Pain? I thought so. If it had pleased heaven to give me that one woman for a wife, and that woman had warned me a daughter, to that daughter I should have spoken as I speak to you now. Kate slowly places her hand in his with pain. Is anyone who might be dear to me dead? No. Kate sinks back. Someone has returned to life. Can it concern me? I hope no. Answer me one question honestly. Do you love this young soldier whom I saw here today? Suppose I say no. Then I leave you without another word. If I say yes? Then I deliver to you a message. A message? From whom? From the one who has returned to life. Yes or no? Heaven help me. I love Eric. In the distance there is the faint sound of Felicity's song, supposed to proceed from the room above through the open window. There's a jingle. Dorma crosses it back and listens. The sun is shining. What is that? The child's singing. She is happy. Go on, I want the message. Dorma takes some papers from Pocket Book. Hear the jingle. It is here, in writing. Addressed to whom? While you may. The woman who loves Eric Thorndike. I am she. Who sends it? A mother. The stranger at the White Lion. Who is the stranger at the White Lion? Lover. Eric Thorndike's wife. Kate rises slowly, supporting herself upon the table. She and Dorma stand face to face. The song above ceases. Eric Thorndike's wife. Yes? Falls back into chair. Shall I read the message? If you please. Dorma goes up to the Bureau, puts on his spectacles, and by the light of the lump arranges his papers. It is written in French. I have translated it faithfully. He places the paper before Kate. That is the original. She takes it mechanically, looks at it, then lets it fall upon the floor. At the same moment the shadow of a man is seen at the window left, and the curtains move slightly. Shall I read the translation to you? Opens paper with one hand, pushes it off table. If you please. Towards lumps. The movement of the curtains stops. Dorma reads slowly. I was a singer in Brussels with a sweet voice. They called me La Sardine. Stop. The siren. Yes. I am a Protestant, born at Chateau Fontaine, five miles from Lige. My father was an Englishman, my mother a Belgian woman. They died when I was a child. An orphan, like me. Touches lamp again. Three years ago a student, Eric Thorndike. Eric appears at left centre, holding back curtain. Married me secretly, but legally, at the Protestant church in the Rudestarsat in Brussels. Are you listening? Yes. I married for money in station. I won neither. I found myself wedded to a man who was dependent on a wretched allowance and who dared not disclose his marriage. We were never happy, and I grew to hate him. One terrible night he discovered me in a gaming-house, pledging his name to pay my losses. I feared him for the first time in my life, and I fled. Is this a woman? The fatigue of my journey threw me into a fever. For many a day I lay at death's door, and throughout the country where the sirens was a familiar voice I was thought dead. Dead? I see. When I recovered my sweet voice and pretty face had gone for me forever. I had nothing but a mad loathing for the man whom I had never loved and I formed a plan to ruin him. Oh! I took a new name and fostered the report of my death, saying to myself, He will love and marry again. And then I, the wreck of what I have been, will come back to life and destroy his peace. Eric disappears. Not a woman. Not a woman. But in time my heart softened and my hate died away. My conscience won't let me rest, and now, when remorse has broken me, I drag myself to where Eric is, to learn what evil I have caused. If there be any wrong, it is I that have worked it, not my deceived husband, whom I have not the courage to face. Signed, Matilde. Is that all? Dorma, pocketing paper. That is all. Kate rises. How comes this creature to know of the existence of the woman who loves Eric Thorndike? She asked me if I thought such a woman existed. I replied, yes. Then, said she, whoever this woman is, and wherever she may be, carry my warning to her before it is too late. Puts paper away and goes to sofa left. Kate struggles with herself for a moment. Her manner becomes completely changed. Ah! Thank you, Parson Dorma, for your goodness and for your cold journey. May I give you some wine? No. He resumes his cape and gloves, then holds out his hand to Kate. Good night. She takes his hand. Don't come down. I can find my way out. Looking round. I used a quarrel here with your father. Good night. I shall look for you tomorrow at our harvest supper. It is the happiest night in our year. Screams and falls back. Dorma catches her. He is going. She clutches his sleeve. Parson! Parson, look! She points to the written confession which lies upon the floor. Don't leave me alone with that. What? That. Take it away with you. Take it away. Dorma crosses to table, takes up paper and puts it in his pocket and crosses back to left. Strange creatures we women, aren't we? And superstitious, a little. Remember, Parson dear, we must keep our secret. Think of the scandal and misery for poor Eric if this history became known. For Eric's sake, remember. You bear the young gentleman, no grudge? I... know. Dorma, looking at her. Ah, you'll eat a breakfast tomorrow, I shan't. And my wound is twenty years old. Good night to you. He goes out. Kate listens to his receding steps. Good night. Good night. There is the sound of the closing of a door in the distance. Gone. She looks round. Quite alone. She shuts the door softly, then, with uncertain steps, walks to the city left, upon which she sinks with a low moan. Starts up wildly. It's late. Let me see. She takes her wedding ring from her pocket. My wedding ring. I'll hide that. It is such a lie to carry about with me. She hurriedly opens a small drawer in the bureau, right of it, and brings it to table. It will rest there and can never be laughed at. She takes off her bracelets. These two. Eric's gifts. She throws them into the open drawer, then takes the locket from her neck. Eric's portrait. She opens the locket and gazes at the portrait earnestly. Another woman's husband. She rises. Nobody sees me. Music kisses locket. Eric covers his face with his hands. Kate throws locket into the drawer. As she does so, she catches sight of the papers lying there. She seizes them. Papers. I had almost forgotten. They would tell tales if, if anything bad happened to me. She examines them. Eric comes from the recess as if about to speak. Kate opens a letter. From Eric when his regiment was quartered at. My own Kate. Eric sinks, horror-stricken. Upon the chair by the Bureau, his head drops upon his arm. Kate finds an old photograph. Ah, a photograph of the church where we were married. Remember, we entered at that door, not the one under the porch, and it brought us to the chancel. Ah, here it is. Reading. The parish church of St. Paul at Blissworth in Yorkshire. How pretty. It's one hundred and fifty miles away. What a long journey for such a marriage. A Valentine. She takes the papers and kneels at the fireplace. She goes down on her knees before fire and burns the papers, first kissing them. Eric raises his head. A lucky thing that Christy made such a bright fire for me. Shivering. And yet it is cold. I suppose heat never comes from burned love letters. To the letters. Goodbye. Goodbye. Eric rises and slowly comes down centre. Kate. Kate, with a cry she starts up and faces him. Eric. Music stops. I know everything. I have heard what have you to say to me? Kate walks feebly towards him behind chair. Kate, leaning on chair for support. Nothing but leave me. I am looking at you now for the last time. How can I leave you when we are bound by such ties? I love change me to you. Nothing earthly can break that. The same words with which you would that other woman. Kate. Advancing. Don't touch me. Or I shall drop dead with shame. Eric advances again. Don't touch me. I can bear anything now but that. You must hear me. Hear you. What can you tell me but that the pretty music you have played in my ears has been but the dull echo of your old love-making? What can you tell me but that I am a dishonoured woman? Eric turns away. With no husband yet not a widow. Like to be a mother and never to be a wife. Advances a step. You will listen to me tomorrow? Turns up a little. Tomorrow. I have no tomorrow. I am living my life now. My life. My life. What it might have been. She sinks on her knees with a head upon the floor by table. Eric bends over her. Kate, don't shrink from me. I go down in the same wreck with you. You are a hopeless woman. I stand beside you. A hopeless man. You never told me of the past. All the times I have looked in the glass with the flush on my cheek that you have painted there and called myself Eric's first sweetheart. If you had told me of the past. I could not believe in its reality. She never loved me, Kate. She threw me away like an old glove or a broken feather. I believed her dead. Ah, Kate, do you think I would have stolen one look from you if I hadn't believed myself to be a free man? Oh, Eric! Eric! I had news from a distance that she had died, a repented woman. In my dreams I have seen the grass and flowers springing up from her grave. Oh, Eric! What dreams all haunt me this night, the grave of your life and mine. Hand to head. Dreams that picture despair and parting. Walks up and returns. Eric, rising himself. Tell me where to turn, where to go. If I die, what then? If I live, what then? How do anything you bid me? Returns to her. But if you drink for me at parting, it is more than I could bear. Only look at me. One last look. A look for me to cherish, Kate. Kate, rises. No. No. He covers his eyes with his hand. There is a pause. Let me see your face, Eric. He turns. They look each other in the face, pityingly. Trouble makes you pale. Oh, how selfish I am. Poor Eric. I am thinking of the day we first met. How bright. And now, what parting? Hush! I shall go mad if you make me think. The clock chimes again. Kate, starting. Look at the hour. Good night. He turns to go, stops, holds out his hand. Does my hand bid once? Kate, looking at him. We are suffering so much together, aren't we? I don't know what I have said to you, but it is no fault of yours, dear. We were wedded in happiness. We are divorced in grief. Yes, I will just take your hand. Without approaching too nearly, she lays her hand in his. Their eyes meet. Oh, Kate, the future. With a cry they go to each other, but as Eric is about to press his lips to hers, she recoils with horror. Oh, no. I have prayed God to make me good all my life. What should I be if you kissed me now? Oh, Kate. Go. Go, Eric. You love me too well for that, don't you? Heaven give me strength? Yes. The door left opens and Gilbert appears with a fixed and determined look, carrying his gun. Mr. Thondike. Well, sir. A pause. Why have you come back to the house? Gilbert puts hat on chair and shuts door. I have not left the house. I come for an answer to my letter. Kate, putting a hand to her head. Your letter? The letter lies unopened upon the table. Kate sees it. Oh, there it is, unopened. Gilbert walks fervently into the room and points towards the letter. Read it, please. Kate opens a letter, draws her hands across her eyes and reads, sitting right of table. Squire Kate. I will be satisfied that this Thondike's name is not too black in yours in the mouth of the people of Market Sinfield. I shall remain concealed in this house till I can speak to you alone. Remember, my love makes me desperate. One more harsh word from you may bring mischief to another. Gilbert. Mischief to another? Eric slowly takes the letter from Kate. What gives you a right to control this lady? Her loneliness. My love. I was born and reared on these lands. We plucked wild flowers together as children. Are you her guardian now that she is a woman? I am. And of any weak soul in peril. Kate rises. What do you want of me? Nothing, because I am face to face with him. Quickly then, sir, you are business with me. Throws paper down. Mr Thondike, you are supposed to be a sunshine acquaintance of our Squires. I found here a dead of night in the house of one whom all honest folks know as Miss Verity. Well, sir. But pointing to Kate. I can't. I won't believe that that lady is good and pure. You either have a cigarette right here, or you are an intruder and worse than a thief. You have to answer for this to me. Sir, you are in the presence of a sorrow too profound to be disturbed by sharp questions and hot answers. In justice to this lady, we may meet tomorrow. Not tomorrow, when I trap my game tonight. Ah! Gilbert, you used to be so gentle. Eric restrains her. Pardon me, Squire. My reckoning is with him. Mr Thondike, you have robbed me of a love which I have laboured for for years. Ceaseless yearning, heart sickness, hope raised and hope deferred, sleep without rest, thirst for which there is no drink. That is my account. What is yours? I find you now where you can have no right but the sacred one of husband. Eric and Kate exchange a look. He comes nearer to Eric and looks at his face. Is that lady your wife? You approach me, sir, with the light of murder in your eyes and carry no weapon. Your very tone, sir, is a sacrilege. I tell you, man, there is a grief so deep that it is holy before heaven. Is that lady your wife? Kate advancing. Gilbert, you shall know. Eric stopping her. Hush. To Gilbert. Do you threaten me? I am the protector of a helpless woman. I do. You are a coward. Gilbert stamping his foot. Is that lady your wife? Then, sir, in the sight of heaven, yes. In the sight of the law? No. Heaven forgive you. Stand back. He raises his gun. Kate rushes forward with a cry and catches his uplifted arm. Gilbert, Gilbert, the father of my child. Music. She falls in a swoon at his feet. Gilbert, with a cry, drops his gun and looks down with horror upon Kate. Eric kneels beside her as the curtain falls quickly. Quick-act drop. Picture. Eric, supporting Kate's head, left of her. Gilbert, looking on, dumbfounded. In fact, too.